Numair's Birthday
by Galia
Summary: Definitely not fluff. Numair has an unhappy birthday. I'm not sure if it will have a plot or not yet. Review it! Please! And if you have any ideas, possibly from your own experience, about what horrible things I can do to Numair on his birthday (*cackle c
1. The Bad Beginning

"Birthdays are supposed to be happy, sunny, and beautiful," Numair said to himself over the sound of rain pounding the palace 

A/N: This was inspired by my own recent birthday experiences. It stinks to have a bad day on your birthday, as Numair will point out. No point, just random rants about Numair.

~~~~~~~~~

"Birthdays are supposed to be happy, sunny, and beautiful," Numair said to himself over the sound of rain pounding the palace roof. "When I open my eyes, the brilliant sunbeams of morning will illuminate the room."

He opened his eyes. It was still raining.

Grumbling, Numair rolled over to see if Daine was awake, but the side of the bed usually occupied by his lover was empty. There was a note on her pillow:

_Numair,_

_I went to Corus with Onua. I should be back by sundown, but if I'm not, don't worry._

_Love, Daine_

_ _

Numair glared at the note before incinerating it in a ball of black flame. "She forgot," he muttered. "Wonderful."

He climbed out of bed and threw open the curtains. Rain was lashing the window, and a flash of lightening momentarily revealed a view of the waterlogged Royal Forest. The sky outside was so dark, it might have been hours before sunrise. Numair lit a candle and walked across the room to his dresser. 

"Damn!" he cursed as he tripped over boots he had left out the night before. Regaining his balance, he thought, _no harm done._ But that was before he tripped over the other boot…

Numair hit the floor with a _thud!_, and the candle rolled out of his hand and across the floor. He swore more vividly as it rolled closer and closer to his full-length cloak, which was hanging on the door—

The cloak caught the flame and was burning like a bonfire within a few seconds. Numair seized a glass of water from his nightstand and threw it over the blaze, to little effect. Only then did it occur to him to douse the fire with his Gift. He held up the charred remains of his cloak with a sigh before crumpling them up into a ball and putting them in the waste bin. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast was already over by the time he finally made it out of his room. Hungry and extremely ill-tempered, he went to his workroom and sat down for a productive day. At least, that's how he was planning it. His pen was poised above his notes when someone knocked on the door.

"Come in!" Numair called curtly. The visitor, King Jonathan of Conté, came in looking disgustingly cheerful in contrast to the younger man's own mood. Numair put down his pen and did his best to appear friendly. "Good morning, Jon,"

"And what a lovely morning it is," the king quipped, gesturing toward the window. Numair made a face, and Jon laughed.

"Anyway, let me tell you why I dropped by," the king said. "How are you coming along with that simulacrum?" He indicated a form identical to himself propped against a far wall.

"I'm nearly finished," Numair said. "When did you say you needed it? The twenty-fifth of the month or the twenty-sixth?"

Jon made a nervous coughing sound. "Actually, I was hoping you could have it ready by tomorrow." Numair shook his head, to be sure he'd heard right as the king fidgeted uncomfortably.

"But I can't possibly have it done by tomorrow!" he protested. "I need some supplies from my tower, and I can't go and get them with the weather like this." Jon raised his eyebrows, as if to say, "that's no excuse." Numair just glowered at him.

Jon decided to take a different approach. "Numair, you _know_ I wouldn't make you ride in this weather if it wasn't important. I need that simulacrum tomorrow…my life likely depends on it." Numair sighed.

"Of course I'll go." He put away his notes and went to the door, pausing to reach for his cloak before realizing that it didn't exist anymore. 

"Jon," he said on his way out the door, "If I come back to find a huge stack of work on my desk, I'm moving back to Carthak." The king grinned.

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A/N: OK, short, but just the beginning. Ideas? Review! No ideas? Review anyway!


	2. Mud, Horses, and Housekeepers

A/N: To those who asked, I had absolutely no intention of giving Numair a surprise birthday party—that would be too nice of me

A/N: To those who asked, I had absolutely no intention of giving Numair a surprise birthday party—that would be too nice of me! DarkWolf, why does everything have to turn out OK? Lady Carlee and Lady of the Wolves, Good idea! I'm going with it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Mud," Numair grumbled, shaking his soggy hair out of his eyes. "Why must there always be mud?"

He had been on the road for three hours, and the downpour hadn't eased in the slightest. He and Spots has been on muddy city roads, muddy country roads, muddy forest roads, and they were now on a muddy coastal road. Above the trees, Numair could just see the tip of his tower. He was nearly home.

The dark sky was suddenly filled with lightening, and seconds later an earth-shaking crash of thunder sounded. Spots, frightened by the noise, reared. Numair managed to hang on as his horse bucked beneath him, until one final lurch sent him sprawling off the horse's back onto the muddy road. Spots, still terrified by the storm, ran off toward the tower, leaving Numair behind.

~~~~~~~~

He had to stop every step to pull his foot out of the mud, and it was an hour before he had completed the ten-minute ride to his tower on foot. His housekeeper, Ilta, came bustling over, chiding him in Scanran for being out in the storm without a cloak. 

"It wasn't _my_ plan for the day," Numair said irritably. "The king needs me to finish a highly advanced simulacrum for him, before tomorrow, and I need the notes that I keep here."

"Humph," humphed Ilta. "Sending you running around in the rain, he'll make you catch your death of cold."

Numair wanted to protest her statement, but what came out instead was a loud sneeze. The housekeeper banged a kettle down on the stove decisively, as if that proved her point. She rummaged around in a closet and thrust a wool blanket into his hands. 

"Go!" she demanded, pointing into the library with her other hand on her hip. "Stoke up that fire and sit there!" Numair obeyed, blowing his nose on the way out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Short, I know, but I'm not done. And if you thought THAT was how I used your ideas, you're wrong. Reviews, anyone?


	3. Pitfalls of Irrelevant Reveries

A/N: Thanks for your reviews

A/N: Thanks for your reviews! I'm doing my best to make him as adorably miserable as possible.

~~~~~~~~~

Numair didn't have much time to sit by the fire and dry off. Almost as soon as he'd sat down, the king's face appeared in his hearth fire.

"Numair, what took you so long to get home?" Jon demanded. Numair relayed the story briefly, trying to still his chattering teeth. Ilta swooped into the library with a cup of hot tea, tsk-ing disapprovingly at Jon's image. Numair wrapped his hands around the mug gratefully.

"In conclusion, I am currently cold, wet, muddy, and in a _very_ bad mood. So I suggest this is not the best time to sing me the happy birthday so-son-_achoo!_" he sneezed.

The king looked startled. "Oh, it _would_ be your birthday today, wouldn't it. The big three-one…congratulations." Numair glared at him. "Oh, all right. I'm sorry that I forgot. But be back here with your notes in three hours."

The king's spell ended before Numair could protest. Grumbling, he rose from his comfortable seat on the floor, leaving his tea and keeping the blanket wrapped around his still-shivering shoulders with one hand. He tiptoed past the kitchen to avoid a scolding from Ilta and dashed to his workroom.

"They were right _there_," he mumbled to himself as he searched frantically through the untidy stack of papers on his desk. 

_Three hours, three hours, two hours and fifty-nine minutes…_

_ _

"Master Nu_mair_!" Ilta called from the top of the stairs. "I told you to stay by that fire until you were dry! Don't think I didn't hear you sneezing!"

Numair found his notes and grabbed them (_two hours and fifty-eight minutes…_). He sprinted down the stairs, sweeping by his housekeeper on the way down. Ilta turned around and chased after him, brandishing the tea and a waterproof cloak. When Numair stopped at the door, she threw the cloak over his shoulders and shoved the mug into his hands.

"Drink," she commanded. He drank as quickly as the hot tea would allow, and then grinned at her, handing back the empty mug (_two hours and fifty-six minutes!_).

"Thanks, Ilta!" he called as he flew out the door. She stood in the doorway and watched him dash toward the stables, chasing after a few pages of his notes when they were caught by the wind. 

"That man," she muttered in her native language of Scanran, torn between disapproval and fondness. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

When in a disagreeable mood, Numair found it comforting to mumble to himself. "Gods curse this awful rain," he muttered. "Jon, the idiot, wants a simulacrum by _tomorrow_! Gods curse his gods-cursed simulacrum! Wait a minute…"

If an object is already gods-cursed, he thought, how could the gods curse it again? Or why would they want to? Come to think of it, how did "gods-cursed" ever become an expression? 

Numair's mood improved slightly as he recalled books he had read on the development of colloquial speech. This kept him occupied for the entire three-hour trip. 

When his internal clock told him that the journey should be almost over, he shook himself out of his thoughts and looked around.

"The road from Port Caynn looks so much different in the rain," he said to Spots, who didn't seem to care. "It smells different, too, and sounds different…it sounds almost like the sea…" he trailed off, frowning. With a small nagging worry in the pit of his stomach, he dismounted Spots and tied the horse to a nearby bush. Walking in the direction of the "sea-like" sound, he confirmed his fear. 

"I'm still next to the ocean!" he cried to no one in particular. Looking around more objectively, he said, "this isn't the costal road, but it's certainly not the way back to Corus. _Where am I?_"

He took one step in the direction he'd come from and fell to the muddy ground for the second time that day. But this time, he felt a sharp pain shoot up his leg, which then eased to a severe throbbing in his ankle. He cursed out loud and carefully removed his foot from the rabbit-hole, which had tripped him.

"Sprained," he growled, tenderly probing his ankle. "It figures." He hauled himself to his feet using a nearby tree trunk, and limped awkwardly back to where he had left Spots. At least, where he was sure he had left him.

"Spots?" Numair called. "Spots?!?! _Gods!!_" He sank to his knees in frustration, and then lowered himself into a sitting position. Spots' tether was still attached to the bush where the horse had been tied, but bite-marks showed Spots had finally lost patience with being outside in the pouring rain. The horse knew the way home—Numair didn't.

"Gods!" he repeated again, as a fresh series of thunder and lightening filled the sky.

~~~~~~~~~

A/N: So, I wonder what's going to happen next! I have an idea for an interesting conclusion, but I'm not sure if it's too dramatic. I'll think about it.


	4. Cider is Good, fur Coats are Bad

A/N: Sorry about the wait, but my homework situation has been insane

A/N: Sorry about the wait, but my homework situation has been insane!

~~~~~~~

Numair's ankle pained him more and more as the afternoon wore on. At least, he thought it was afternoon, but the sun was completely masked behind a dark thundercloud sky.

He was too tired even to smile when he finally saw the lights of a town. It was a fairly good sized one, but not quite a city and nowhere he'd ever been before. The first public building he saw was a respectable-looking inn, and he made for the door as quickly as he could.

The inn was fairly large, and mostly empty. A serving maid came over to him soon after he had seated himself at an empty table. 

"Will you be wanting anything, sir?" she asked. He shrugged off his wet cloak as he contemplated his order.

"Just a mug of hot cider, if you please," he said. On an afterthought, he asked, "What's the name of this town, anyway?"

"This is Rease River," she told him over her shoulder as she went to get his drink. He sighed and went to hang his cloak by the fire. He couldn't remember much about this town, and at the moment, the general location seemed to be failing him, too.

The woman was back quickly with his drink. He suspected that she felt sorry for him in his drenched state; his cloak had stopped shedding the rain hours ago. 

"Oh, thank you, _thank_ you!" he said gratefully as she handed him the steaming cup. She smothered a laugh, but he didn't care. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Numair was a good deal drier and warmer than he had been when the king's face appeared in the fire next to him. Jon, needless to say, was both furious and worried.

"Numair!" he demanded. "Where in Mithros' name have you been? You were supposed to arrive _hours_ ago! I've been searching for you near every fire in the realm! Do you even know where you _are_?"

Numair's mood had been greatly improved by the half-hour spent in front of a fire with a warm drink. "I'm in Rease River. I forget where it is. Do you know?"

This was not the time for jokes. Jon's face turned slightly purple. "I need you here, and I need you _now_! Forget your notes, just get yourself into my study!"

"All right, all right!" Numair said, placing a coin for the cider on the table and getting to his feet with mild annoyance. The king gave him brief directions, and he could almost hear the information rush into his brain as he recalled maps of the realm he'd studied. He threw on his slightly damp cloak as the Jon disappeared and left the inn with a nod to the serving maid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a fairly short walk to Corus, injured ankle and all. Once in the palace, he happened to meet a healer friend of his. The woman wouldn't let him continue toward the king until she had bandaged his ankle. He thanked her, although internally he resented the delay. 

Numair knocked on Jon's study door, rather more violently than usual. 

"Come in!" came the king's voice. "And shut the door quickly!"

Numair thought this was an odd request, but wasn't in the mood to question it. He opened the door slightly, slipped through, and nearly forgot to close it again when he saw the scene inside the study. Jonathan of Conté was tied to a chair, with his upper half left free. An armed guard dressed in northern-style clothing stood on either side of the chair, and a tall man with a curly blonde beard and a fur cloak sat in the chair behind the king's desk. This man smiled maliciously at Numair.

"Numair, please sit down," Jon said. "These gentlemen would like to speak with you." Although the king's voice and face displayed no fear, his hand shook as he gestured to an empty chair.

Numbly, he sat, thinking, _I don't think this is a surprise party…_

~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Dum, dum dum dum…what will happen next? Who is this cruel man who wears the skin of a helpless, innocent animal and keeps our heroes captive? Find out next time, in Numair's Birthday, chapter five! Oh, yes, REVIEW this one. I've seen this method before: **_SEVEN SIGNED REVIEWS OR NO NEXT CHAPTER!_** And it would be a shame, too, because I have a really good idea…


	5. Catharsis (Well, Not Really)

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            "Would you please be so kind as to explain what's going on?" Numair said irritably. He didn't mean to be rude to his king, but he could hardly be cheerful, due to the quality of his birthday so far.

            The man behind the desk grinned, looking rather like some kind of wild animal. _Maybe a bear, _Numair thought, _in that big furry cloak._ "I think _His Majesty_ would be more than happy to explain.

            Jon looked at Numair, showing guilt, regret, and pity in the same expression. "These, um, _gentlemen_ from Galla have somehow become aware of the research you're doing into advanced simulacra." The king gave his mage a meaningful look, and it was clear to Numair that Jon was saying "just like the one you're doing for me." Obviously, and thankfully, that fact was still unknown to the Gallans.

            Numair nodded. "I see they've discovered that particular secret. What does that have to do with why you're tied?"

            "Numair," the king said, though it seemed to be difficult for him, "they would like you to stay with them for a little while, just until you tell them what you know…"

            "Tell them?" Numair said, outraged. "How can I do that? It's classified information, and you _know_ that it's for the safety of the royal family that it remain that way."

            The king closed his eyes. _If I didn't know him better,_ Numair thought, _I'd think he was distressed._

            "The rest of the royal family is in the private library," the bear-like man said with another disconcerting grin. "More of my guard are there, and a mage who is listening to every word said in this room."

            Jon picked up the thread of the story. "If I refuse to send you to Galla, or if you refuse to go…"

            "They won't be alive when His Majesty sees them next!" the man said triumphantly. "So, what will it be, Master Salmalín?"

            Numair sighed. "I'll go to Galla," he said, "but you'll regret it every step of the way, believe me."

            The man chuckled. "I doubt that," he said. "Now, allow me to draw up a document of arrest." Seeing the furious looks of the two Tortallans, he added, "It's only a necessary formality. It wouldn't do to have the King's Own rescuing you on the Great Road North. We must pretend that you are under arrest, and to be tried in Galla."

            Numair had resigned himself to his fate, and was trying to take it as casually as possible. While the bear-like man filled out official-looking paperwork, Jon leaned forward and whispered, "I'll see if we can somehow get you some dry clothes—"

            The guard to Numair's right cuffed him sharply on his ear. He quickly pressed his hand to the spreading bruise and glared up at the guard. Oddly enough, Jon and Numair, both well-educated men, were thinking of the same quote from one of Tortall's greatest playwrights. _Evil is doubt with the hope drained out._ More specifically, they were thinking, _this is not a good sign_.

~~~~~~~~~~

[A/N: Yes, I made that up, yes, it took me ten minutes, yes, it's stupid (unless you really, really, think about it hard enough), no, I did not rhyme it on purpose. And the Galia quote that I could have used if I had succeeded in making it sound Shakespearian was as follows: "This morning, a moth chased me out of my shower. I have a feeling the rest of my day is going to be kind of like that."]

~~~~~~~~~~

            The first hint of something being seriously wrong was when the guards and the cloaked leader led Numair south towards Corus, not north through the Royal Forest on the fastest route to Galla. By the time they shoved him into an abandoned warehouse, he was beginning to feel rather stupid.

            The bearded bear ordered the two guards to do their job at the door, and joined Numair in the warehouse, where he had attempted to make himself comfortable by sitting against a wall. The man walked up to him with a scowl and aimed a bruising kick at his side.

            Numair clutched his side with a moan. "What do you _want?_" he asked. "Can't I just be done with this?"

            The man laughed. "I suppose by now you realize that you've been deceived?" he said in a voice that grated Numair's nerves. The mage glared a response, which only made the man laugh harder. He bowed his head and wrapped his fur cloak around himself. "See your mistake, lapdog of my cousin!" he said.

            The man raised his head and Numair gasped. It was a face that he had never seen in person up until that point, but he had seen countless portraits and drawings of the former Duke Roger of Conté. 

            "You!" Numair gasped, and suddenly felt red-hot pain sear his entire body. He curled tightly into a ball and screamed, as his bones seemed to splinter into a thousand pieces. Just as he thought he would die, Roger removed the spell, still laughing, and Numair was left with only the natural pain of his ankle. 

            "Improvements on the creation of simulacra," Roger stated as if reading from a scroll. "Tell me."

            "When the Black God claims his own daughter!" Numair spat. Quicker than light, Roger crouched down to the other man's level and pressed a dagger to the side of his throat. A thin line of blood began to trickle down his neck, but Numair still glared defiantly at Roger.

            "Curse you, Salmalín!" Roger growled. "Tell me before the Black God claims _you_!"

            "I can die with or without telling you," Numair said. "I'll keep it a secret, but thanks." His brave words collapsed into gasps of pain as Roger pressed the dagger into his neck.

            "I'm warning you!" the former duke said. "Tell me before you regret it."

            He slid the dagger down slightly, away from vital nerves so that bleeding to death would be more slow and painful. Numair's vision filled with red splotches. He couldn't think…_tell me, damn you!_ The pain was incredible…_why don't I just tell him? It could all be over…I could die so quickly…I don't have to let him play with me…_

            It was a blessing when he lost consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

            "Mithros, Mynoss, and Shakith!" was the first thing out of Numair's mouth before he realized how inappropriate it was to leave the rest of the deities out of his oath when they were all seated around him. "How many mortals get _this_ chance?"

            Mithros laughed. "Very few. And knowing you, you'll be sure to publish a paper on the subject. If I might ask you to refrain from doing so?"

            Numair got to his feet and bowed deeply, first to Mithros and the Goddess, then in a circle to all the other gods and goddesses. "Of course, your…um, your godliness? Your Majesty?"

            The God of the Sun shook his head, a slight smile playing at his lips. "When you get back, the first thing you need to do is go to a healer for your burns, and make sure you get some rest once that's finished."

            "My burns, sir? Forgive me, but burns are one of the few things that _haven't_ happened to me today."

            "They will," the Goddess spoke up. "We're arranging for the warehouse to burn down. You, of course will escape, but Roger of Conté's body will be reduced to ashes."

            "He is contemptuous of my laws," said a deep voice that could only come from the hooded Black God behind Numair. "I must find a way to keep him for eternity."

            Once he had gotten over the initial shock of appearing in the midst of all the gods and goddesses, Numair began to feel uneasy. This was, without a doubt, the strangest, and even the most frightening, thing that had happened to him all horrible day. 

            Somebody, at least, sensed it. A small hand took his own and looked down to see Sarra, Daine's mother and a minor goddess. She smiles up encouragingly at him, and Weiryn, standing beside her, nodded. Numair turned around at a tap on his other shoulder and looked up into the unfathomable but strangely comforting eyes of Gainel the Dreamaster, a god with whom he somehow felt a special connection. This god smiled serenely, and Numair suddenly felt peaceful and somehow in control of the situation. He looked back up at Mithros, filled with a new courage.

            "Sir," he began, "if I may ask you a question?" The god nodded. "Why did you do this to me? I mean, I know that not every day can be perfect and filled with sunshine, but it seems odd that almost as many bad things as could possibly happen to one person have happened to me in the space of one day, like some kind of a twisted tragedy. But why?"

            "Why?" echoed Mneumona, the Goddess of Literature and Learning—naturally, Numair's favorite goddess. "Why indeed? Why does any tragedy take place, my son? Or didn't you learn this?"

            "The hero of a tragedy must have a fatal flaw that brings about his downfall," Numair said. "I'm flattered to be the subject of my own tragedy—well, no—but I'd like to know which one of my flaws was the fatal one."

            "Well, hopefully you noticed that your birthday, strictly speaking, didn't really fall into the structure of tragedy in any of a thousand ways. And don't plan on your downfall occurring anytime soon—or ever. I like you, my son, but you like me, don't you?"

            "I suppose…of course, why not?" No sooner had the words left Numair's mouth than a bright flash of fire shot out from Mneumona's hand and struck Numair's nose squarely, leaving a sharp pain and probably a nasty burn. He clutched his nose and yelped. "What was _that _for?"

            "Your flaw," the Goddess said. "You're so trusting…did you ever think a goddess would hurt you, let alone one who has chosen you?"

            "Chosen me?" Numair repeated, stunned. The Mother Goddess sighed. 

            "It's not as important as if I had chosen something, or Mithros. Mneumona is a minor goddess and chooses many, in comparison. But don't lose yourself in details. The point is, you trust _everyone_. You can't go around doing that!"

            "If I may be allowed to speak plainly?" Mneumona asked. Mithros nodded. "How many times have you been screwed over, Numair? It started with Ozorne…dozens of times, your first years in Tortall…your friend Tristan Staghorn at Fief Dunlath…oh! Ozorne again…various immortal creatures, and Jon unintentionally sending you to near-certain death at the hands of an enemy mage…and now Daine's leading you on but refusing to marry you. And you would still pick up an armed stranger on a roadside!"

            Numair glared at her. "I think the best of people, and you call it a fatal flaw?" Mneumona nodded. "And you orchestrate an ordeal of a birthday to try to teach me? Half of the lessons had nothing to do with trust!"

            "I admit it," Mneumona said. "We didn't really plan most of the events. I figured we'd strand you out in the woods and I'd show up, and we'd have this lovely chat with minimal pain to you. But instead, you obstinate ass, you had to hobble your way out of the forest _plus_ get yourself all the way back to Corus. Haven't you ever heard of acting helpless? What are we supposed to do with someone like you?"

            "You mean to tell me," Numair said, "that _you_ brought Roger of Conté back?"

            "Of course not," said the Black God with anger. "But it was lucky that we can help you and get rid of him at the same time."

            "Help me?" Numair shouted, outraged. "You think it's helpful for me to be told to be as inconsiderate as—as _you_ all? You gave me my personality, and I'm sticking to it, thanks. Now, if you could show me the way out?"

            Mneumona glared at him, and all he saw was darkness. Once he was safely between the Divine and Mortal realms, she grinned. 

            "I always loved that boy," she said. Mithros smiled regally, and Sarra chuckled, shaking her head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            "Numair!" a female voice called, and something grabbed him firmly around his shoulders. 

            Once whatever had been holding him had let go, he gradually got his bearings. The gods were gone, and when he sat up, he could see a crowd of his worried friends including Daine (the one who had been hugging him), Alanna, Jon, Onua, and several others who were farther away and too blurry to distinguish. 

            Duke Barid came over with a bottle of burn salve and several clean cloths. To Numair, this seemed to indicate that he was in the healer's wing, but just in case, he asked, "Where am I?"

            "You're in the healers' wing," Jon clarified. Numair nodded.

            "And what happened?"

            Daine looked very worried. "There was a big fire in the city. A shopkeeper found you on the street outside. You've been out for only an hour or so."

            "Gods curse the gods," Numair muttered to no one in particular.

            "Are you feeling all right?" Jon asked solicitously. "Maybe you should go back to sleep." Numair ignored him and painfully got off the bed. Duke Barid, who knew from experience with the mage that he once he decided to go, he was gone, gave the burn salve to Daine.

            "Put it on when he's asleep, if you have to," he whispered. Daine nodded and led Numair from the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

            Daine and Numair were safely back in their quarters. Numair nearly fell into bed, not even bothering to remove his boots. Daine didn't have the heart to scold him. Instead, she climbed under the covers next to him and hugged him tightly.

            "Daine?" he said suddenly after a few minutes. "Will you marry me? Today I realized that the unexpected often happens, and I don't want to loose you before I've had a chance to love you."

            "Oh, Numair!" she cried and hugged him tighter. He joyfully took this for assent until she said, in a choked-up voice, "I can't, I just can't, I'm sorry. Can we wait a few more years? Please?"

            Numair sighed as his heart crumbled, again, into microscopic pieces. "Of course."

            "Thank you," Daine said gratefully, and a little guiltily. She sat up to blow out the candle, and his back was turned when she lay back down. 

            "This hasn't been a perfect birthday by any stretch of the imagination," he mumbled before drifting off to sleep. Daine started; she had completely forgotten the date. She placed a gentle hand on his back, looking worried, but he was already asleep.

~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Poor Numair! This is the end, guys. What do you think? Please review! I thrive on feedback. Oh, and I hope I put a disclaimer because if I didn't, I'm not in the mood to get sued.

Personal Note: I just saw Vanilla Sky and it was amazing! There's no way to summarize it, because it's the kind of movie where you're not sure where the plot is and then it suddenly all becomes clear. It's a total must-see, and I NEVER say that. Why are you still sitting there? Review me and then go to the movies!


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